


And I'll Have No More Dreams to Defend

by cosmotronic



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/F, Light Angst, Loving Sex, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Game, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 05:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8388658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmotronic/pseuds/cosmotronic
Summary: Just waking up with someone who cares, maybe that is all she needs now.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing violent or horrible or particularly angsty, so enjoy.
> 
> Comments welcome, feedback appreciated.

There's a half second of confusion as the last moments of the dream dance away from her. She doesn't try to capture the strands, she doesn't strive to remember the remnants. Dreams don't mean anything.

She dreams a lot now. They are not thrashing nightmares, not sweaty terrors, not the sort of dream that jolts a person awake. But the unnerved feeling when waking tells her where her mind has been. It could have been a dream of any number of things. Her memories are ripe pickings; confusion, mushroom clouds, panic, a gunshot to the chest, a stolen hope and the end of the world. Then, desolation, death, purgatory, monsters out of hell, a shattered belief and an enduring hollowness. She's seen so much and suffered, her subconscious has a plentiful buffet. She doesn't want to know so she lets the lingering imprint fade.

And even if it was a nice dream, a happy dream and she's missed the chance to recall the wonder, it doesn't matter. The world gently encroaching upon her is wonderful enough right now. She missed this, waking up with someone. Warm bodies, sometimes too warm, tangled in sheets, stolen sheets. An arm or a leg gone numb, a light snore, a bit of drool and messy hair. Safe, secure, somehow content.

Cait's clingy. She hadn't thought the fighter would be, would have thought she would sleep at arms length. Trust didn't come easy for the other woman and unguarded contact was a risk. Learning to be open again was difficult and still she catches her pulling away sometimes, like a nervous tic. It's nicer like this, that somehow Cait has managed to wrap herself around her without thinking, arms and legs like limpets, skin warm against her back, breath hot on her neck, loose strands of hair in her mouth.

They don't often get this. Out in the wasteland they stay close for warmth, but it's not the same. When travelling one of them must always stay awake, keep vigil with eyes scanning the glowing night. Sometimes she will sleep with her head in Cait's lap, lulled by one set of calloused fingers absently stroking though her hair as the others hold a shotgun tight. Then they switch and she will sit propped against a rock or a wall with a rifle in her hand and Cait softly snoring on her shoulder. Sometimes Cait doesn't wake her as promised and they argue about it in the morning. All Cait will say is she deserved a few more hours peace and would she kindly stop moaning about it.

Here there won't be any quarrels. Sanctuary is isolated, well defended, their rest guarded with thanks. They don't need to wait for danger and Cait doesn't need to prove anything by staying up all night. She could tease - Cait was asleep and snoring within minutes of seeing the soft bed - but that's for later. Instead she blinks a few times, squints. Sunlight streams through the window to dapple the bed and the blankets that lie moulded against their naked bodies. Light patterns past the tattered curtain, diffusing bright and yellow through the miraculously intact glass.

The curtain is grey with grey flowers. Everything nowadays is grey. Not dirty grey but that dingy sort of off-white that comes from too much dust and then, too many washes. Upholstery faded by time and clothes that never really come clean and bright. Clouded skies, skeletal trees, tombstone buildings all grey and dead. Dust everywhere, plaster that cracks, walls that crumble. Concrete had an expected stability of fifty years, she remembers reading that in a brief once. Building owners squabbling over building code, contract disputes, disagreements between tenants, landowners, huge corporations and tiny family firms; she used to love her job but it seems so small and unimportant now.

There's no use for lawyers in this world. Civilisation is broken; the scales of society rigged to favour the strong rather than the righteous or the rich. There is law, of a sort; each settlement has it's own rules, codes of conduct and punishments. Then there is the universal order, the law of violence and endurance. Kill or be killed. Survival of the fittest. Last man standing. Justice is personal and so often brutal. She's frankly amazed she coped so well at the beginning, ill-equipped and running on adrenaline with naught but fear and instinct guiding her. She got tough quick, got smart quicker but it's still all so new to her, this old world.

Yet there is something static, something somehow timeless in the two hundred years of decay where nothing new is built beyond necessity. Nothing conceived for the pleasure of creation, nothing done just because a man can. Advancement stalled and humanity stunted, even everyday objects simply frozen in time. Every once in a while she'll come across something left unmarked, like the war had happened only yesterday. A hat hung in a hallway, shoes resting by a door. Breakfast dishes on a table, food long since turned to corruption but the scene still set. A child's mobile hanging expectantly above a crib.

To her, locked for lifetimes in her crystal slumber, it really was only yesterday. She'd once have said that yesterday was a happier time but thinking back she's not so sure. Things weren't all smiles and sunshine in the world that was and some things never change. War, hatred, anger, the aching comfort of a lover's embrace.

She could stay like this forever, she thinks for a precious moment wrapped in Cait's arms, wouldn't mind being frozen in time right now. They won't stay in Sanctuary though, not here in her old house. They just made the stop as the night drew in and the storm clouds grew thick. One night and they'll move on. She thought it would be easier by now, now that the settlement is thriving beyond recognition, but it's harder when nothing in this house seems to change. She asked Preston once why no-one had taken over the place, after all the settlers could use the space and the shelter. He had just said it hadn't seemed right. She'll tell him otherwise, today. It's just a building like any other, she tells herself, just four walls and nothing left to dream of.

There was one place she found that was different, where a man did what a man could. But it's been months since the end of the Institute. Months since Shaun.

She feels the familiar tightness in her chest, the catch in her throat and the sting of tears threatening to fall. She battles claustrophobia and Cait's arms are suddenly too tight, the sheets too heavy, the sunlight too bright. She extricates herself from the embrace, pushing at the constraining cloth, rubbing her eyes. Cait huffs, mumbles, but doesn't wake. Her companion's slept heavier since she kicked the psycho and always like the dead when they have the luxury of a real bed.

She sits on the edge of the mattress, breathing deeply. Used to the blankets and free of the sun, her skin turns to gooseflesh in the morning chill, so she pulls on her work pants and dull plaid shirt. She got rid of the vault suit after everything, burnt it to grey ash. Keeping the brightness of that last link so close to her skin seemed a mockery, like she was sticking to a false promise or wishing for a future that was now redundant. She watched as flames flicked around blue and yellow, laying the dream to rest. A funeral for all the lost and the damned. It was symbolic and silly but Cait understood, she thinks, didn't say anything but held her hand tightly until the embers started to darken and her tears dried. They all have their own demons to exorcise.

She feels sick. She stumbles to the bathroom, second door on the right, five steps here and a turn. The muscle memory is still so strong and she finds herself stretching out fingers for the light switch. No good, she remembers in time. The sink is no good, either, only brown slop runs from the pipes now, so she dips her hands into the bucket of clean-as-can-be well water and runs them over her face. She briefly wonders how much radiation she has absorbed since she awoke, whether it will kill her, whether any of them will reach old age as she stares at a stranger in the broken cabinet mirror.

She can't keep doing this. She longs for those blissful few moments after waking, when the dream fades away and her body is relaxed and her mind has not yet recognised the empty ache. For a time, she had hope, belief, purpose and now... odd courier jobs for the former Railroad or helping the Minutemen build their communities. It hardly occupies her, barely interests her but it keeps her moving. One day she'll wake up in the morning and decide what she has good enough. Maybe not this morning; maybe it will be tomorrow morning or a thousand mornings in the future. Cait's content to follow, let her find a path in her own way, in her own time. There's something like love in the way Cait doesn't question.

Cait’s her own private ray of sunshine. Cait's not grey. Fiery red and shamrock green and yes, kind of off-white and impure but... well, she was never a poet. They have something beautiful together, she thinks, special. They have a home in Diamond City, though they are rarely there. It's basic and rough but it is something she has for herself, a place with no ties that could almost be called a fresh start. Surrounded by her junk, half-formed creations and bits of armour sitting alongside salvaged furniture and a rudimentary kitchen it's an odd slice of domesticity. Cait likes the mess, adores her and calls her treasure and lover and beautiful and she wants so badly to believe it. She does believe it, when Cait's there in front of her, touching her cheek, kissing her, whispering dirty things in her ear to make her blush.

She returns to the bedroom, not feeling right until she sees the slumbering body, lying there in that microcosm of perfection. She feels pathetically soft and needy, like a child needing constant reassurance. Cait has shifted a little and the light paints her relaxed face. Her closed eyes twitch but she doesn't wake. The warmth bathes her skin, the sun haloes the harshness, softens her.

She doesn’t know how long she stands, watching silently and drawing comfort but she jolts a little when she sees sleepy green eyes staring back at her and a small bend to slightly parted lips. She must have tears in her eyes, wet trails on her cheeks because Cait’s smile turns into a tiny, sad frown after a moment.

A hand emerges from the blankets, smooths along the sun-warmed wool and reaches for her. A voice, accent thickened with sleep, invites her back into that comforting space. She doesn't move at first, then her fingers twitch out to catch Cait's hand. She runs her thumb along the back, feeling the small bones and scarred knuckles. The grip twists in hers and tightens as Cait pulls herself upright, yawning and squinting, running her free hand through her tangled locks. The blankets have slipped down, exposing her lover's naked torso to the sun.

She can't help it when her eyes drop. She hears the lewd comment before it is said, sees the smirk before it appears. It doesn't appear though, and Cait remains silent. Whether sleep has robbed Cait's quickness or there's a genuine concern there, the joke isn't really needed because now there's a hand on her neck, pulling her head down and then there's lips on hers. Even half-asleep Cait's kisses are firm, encouraging. The angle is awkward so she puts up no resistance when the hand on her neck and the fingers holding hers pull her down further, down, down until she is lying over her lover. Both Cait's hands move to twist in her hair, alternating small little tugs and soft massages on her scalp, holding her in place.

Cait always kisses her like it's the last time. Loving and desperate, tender and bruising, tongue tasting her, lips memorising her and perhaps she isn't the only one who needs reassurance. She remembers their conversations, their stilted admissions and reckless declarations. She thinks on Cait's past, so much pain and anger without the luxury of a happy before. For all she is a stranger here, for all the horror, how worse it must be to have known nothing else. Her own life before isn't even history, not now and then to be compared and discussed and learned from. To Cait and everyone else there is just now and the scratchings of life, sharp and real. A now where life just is, for better or worse, and the only dreams are what you can make of it. She doesn't mean to be selfish, sometimes she just forgets what this woman has survived. This beautiful, damaged woman who has chosen to stay with her through everything and beyond, because she is good enough.

Maybe this morning they can be sunshine together, she decides. She melts into the kisses and pushes her body fully against the warm naked skin beneath her, rocking her hips slightly in invitation. Cait moans, a small happy sound. Fingers fumble with her shirt buttons in the tight space between them while she works to push her pants down her legs, kicking them free with a burst of energy. She lies back and lets Cait see her, touch her.

Cait does smirk now, heat flashing in her eyes and flushing her skin. She feels a matching blush spread down from her own cheeks. She's never been ashamed of her body, never needed to be, but it still bewilders her when Cait stares, drinking her in like she is precious pure water. She's lost weight since leaving the vault, lost that slight roundness, that proof of soft living. Her muscles have hardened now, not thick and obvious but toned and with a certain wiry toughness. Her body has more edges and fewer curves than before but still Cait looks at her with a little bit of wonder as she cups her soft breasts and draws her back in close to her own rough, lean body.

Cait moves down her body with a slow reverence, tonguing her nipples into tiny peaks, kissing her stomach, breathing in her anticipation. She likes it when Cait uses her mouth on her, trusting and intimate. But she wants to see her lover right now, watch her face come undone, taste her kisses as they move together, so she pulls her back up. Cait grins against her lips and dips long fingers between her legs, softer and more gentle than she thought anyone in this world could ever be. She reaches down with her own hand, brushing through curls and slickness, swallowing Cait's groan of pleasure.

They don't rush; she just lets the golden warmth envelop her slowly. Her lover trembles in her arms and she knows this dream could be good enough.

**Author's Note:**

> You know those random streams of consciousness you get when you're still half-asleep, the rambling trains of thought? Kinda got away from me et voila.
> 
> Also, there is not enough Cait appreciation out there. This makes me sad.


End file.
